


Lost Between the Notes

by Coyotebee



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, Love at First Sight, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coyotebee/pseuds/Coyotebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Louis meet at The Script concert. Harry finds it hard to concentrate on the show and Louis is very smiley throughout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Between the Notes

**Author's Note:**

> This will connect to [The Mistakes Fate Made](http://archiveofourown.org/works/881241/chapters/1696504) (once I get further into the story). This is essentially backstory of that.
> 
> [Pimpin' the Tumblr](http://www.onedireckoner.tumblr.com) 'cause there'll be more writing and One Direction in there.

Harry and his friends push themselves through the crowd, trying to get as close to the stage as possible, now that the opening act were done their set and The Script would be on soon. It was time to claim some permanent territory.

Harry chats with his friend Nathan as they wait. A high-toned but very loud voice calls somewhere further up in crowd and just gets louder.

“Hi, I’m Moses and you are the Red Sea! Part the waters for me!” the voice yells. Some people, including Harry, chuckle and others murmur in annoyance. Harry sees that it’s effective. Heads bob out of the way like they’re buoys in a wave, pushed sideways but they go back to their original spot immediately.

“Moses! I’m Moses!” the voice says, and now Harry can see a boy, probably not much older than him, squeezing between the bodies.

That boy is cute. He’s hot. He’s pretty. Any adjective meaning “beautiful” is what Harry’s hormones would write down, and his English teacher would probably fail him for not being poetic enough with his diction. The boy comes closer and Harry sees that his face shape is impeccable, eyes are bright, and he’s made up of colours that Rembrandt would choose for his portraits, all these coppery hues, and maybe Harry’s art teacher would give him a passing grade because this comparison demonstrates he listened to her lesson on the Baroque movement.

The boy doesn’t see him, he sort of looks over and past him, and it’s too bad because Harry hasn’t gotten any action, ever. Eye sex, an eye _grope_ is what he’s hoping for and he doesn’t even get that. Oh, but then the boy changes trajectory, someone’s an arse and won’t get out of is way, so he has to go by Harry, and yeah, here we go – their shoulders brush. 

The touch should be nothing to Harry, except it _is_ something to Harry. There was shared heat between them for 1.2 seconds, the trace of the other’s weight, their physical being attached briefly which means they’ve got their molecules on each other now, and Harry considers this as having marked the boy, as grossly soppy and weird as that sounds. That’s all he has though, he’s never had a boyfriend, not even a not-serious peck from someone with a dick or isn’t related to him, so yes, he’s going to make something out of a brush on the shoulder.

He got to be in love for about ten seconds with the amount of time he saw the boy, and that’s the most he expects. The stage lights burst on and the boy isn’t important anymore. Harry’s never going to see him again, anyway. There’s thousands of people here, plus this boy was short, chances were slim.

Everyone around perks their heads up. Harry and his friends are probably at the halfway point on the floor, at a 45 degree angle from centre stage. He can see the guitarist and sees a flash of the singer.

Cute Boy comes in at 55 degrees. Thank you, universe. A lot of people are blocking him, but when they arrange just right, he can see the boy’s brown tufts of hair and the side of his face.

Harry knows, he really, really, very much knows he should be paying more attention to the _damn stage._ He forgives himself quick though. He turned fifteen only days ago, and at fifteen your hormones are outrageous, are capable of taking out an eye, and if they were a sound, they’d be louder than Mark Sheehan’s guitar licks right now, because Harry wants actually be licked physically. You know, by tongue, the tongue of a hot boy. On his neck or elsewhere. He’s not fussy.

Harry takes cursory but frequent glances at the boy and it makes him tingly. Oh God, this is pathetic. Being him is pathetic. Nathan’s not pathetic. He’s beside Harry, singing to the lyrics, not desperately branding the image of a boy into his mind.

“ _Before the worst, before we met_ ” is what the frontman sings from the edge of the stage, and that’s when Harry loses the cute boy. It’s his fault and the boys’ fault. The crowd in front of Harry moves forward, so him and his friends take the opportunity to step forward too. Harry has a better view of the boy for a while, then the boy drowns in the mass.

It’s fine, it’s cool, whatever, he’s better off. Harry can enjoy what he came here for... Until “Rusty Halo” because the drums are bashing away and it’s like the kick drum is right in the audience’s chests, shaking their guts below, and everyone is dancing hard and pushing each other over. Suddenly the people in front of Harry disperse, and someone’s careening backward toward him.

Incoming Cute Boy. Him and Harry turn into a slingshot. His back is to Harry’s front, the boy tips, and Harry hooks his arms underneath the boy’s armpits, whoa, look at that – he actually caught him. Harry keeps his balance no less, he’s able to stay standing when the boy sinks into him and presses into his torso – what is this sudden spell of grace?

The boy is light and he’s on his feet, just knocked back, so Harry’s able to work against gravity and momentum and propel the boy upward again.

The boy turns around, looking a bit befuddled and ruffled. He turns around to see who’s caught him.

“Shit! Sorry… Sorry, mate!” he yells and pats Harry on the shoulder.

“Hi. Uh, it’s okay… it’s okay,” Harry says. He gives the boy a deliberately hammy smile and a thumbs-up. It’s compulsion. Compulsion to act as silly as possible when someone attractive interacts with him which is probably why he’s a total virgin of every sexual act there is.

The boy smiles back, showing his small pointy teeth, and it weirds Harry out that he finds that cute, and dammit, it’s distracting him from figuring out how to continue this verbal exchange, and now the boy’s scanning his face, and it’s crippling Harry that he must be assessing him. Googly-eyed Harry is not an aesthetically-pleasing Harry.

The boys turns himself around. And stays near him. Not beside him, that’s just way too lucky, but he’s in front of Harry, a little to the right. Harry can see a little bleach stain on his blue t-shirt. It dips into his spine.

The crowd keeps on moving to the music though, pretty violently. A tall guy near Cute Boy knocks him back, and Harry can’t even find enough can’t-evens to express how he just _can’t_. The cute boy bumps right into him again, albeit not as dramatically. 

“Shit, I’m sorry! Again!”

“It’s fine. My curls keep me perfectly balanced.”

The boy laughs, laughs big, mouth hanging open and his eyes scrunched closed. Harry’s very impressed with himself because that was the charm his mum keeps saying he has. Yes, he’s pretty sure that’s what he managed to produce here.

“Maybe that’s why you keep falling. Your hair is straight,” Harry says.

The boy’s mouth quirks upward again, but then his friend who’s beside him says, “Yeah, that’s the only part of him that’s straight…”

What.

Cute Boy mock-grimaces and gives his friend a light punch on the bicep.

A boy Harry is attracted to is – sorry? What was that? Not straight for once? Is this what it feels like to win an Olympic medal? At least the bronze? When you’ve almost made it to the top, but you’re insanely happy that you’ve placed at all? ‘Cause Harry’s not at the top; this boy would have to like him back for him to win the gold. Harry Styles, winner of the bronze medal in Sexual Relationships. He got it without even eye sex, it’s unprecedented.

“This bloke’s a twat!” the boy says to Harry, rolling his eyes.

Harry chuckles. As he does, the boy glances at the bottom half of his face. He probably sees his dimple.

The boy shifts himself beside Harry now.

“All right, we are gonna try out a new song here!” the singer calls out to the audience, and, oh right, there’s a band playing music here. “This one’s called ‘For the First Time’!”

Harry tries to get into it, but he can’t, he’s very aware of the boy’s proximity. He’s this golden brown and blue splodge swaying in and out of his peripheral who sometimes knocks his elbow.

The song’s suddenly over and they’re cheering. Nathan’s beside him, hooting loudly.

“Awesome song, wasn’t it?” Harry yells to Nathan, mostly to get him to shut up with the hooting.

“Yeah, it was awesome!”

The cute boy says it. He thought Harry directed the question toward him, and it was a wonderful mistake on his part because hey, this meant they could _keep talking._

“That chorus is catchy. I hope they put it on their next album!” the boy adds.

“Yeah, it should be,” Harry says and points to someone two heads away from them, who has a camera in their hands. “In the mean time, we’ve got this girl in front of us who’ll put it on YouTube!”

“Hey, what’s your name?” the boy says.

“Harry.”

“I’m Louis,” the boy says.

Cute Boy/Louis pats Harry’s back.

The next song starts up. Louis’ eyes light up the moment the first piano chord reverberates over them, and Harry’s excited about this too.

Louis says something to him and he can’t actually hear it, the music’s too loud.

“What?”

And this night is blessed. “What?” is the exact right thing to say –it makes Louis put his hand on Harry’s shoulder blade, and he leans in, gets close to his ear. The ends of Harry’s hair are bent by Louis’ cheek as he repeats, “This is my favourite!”

So close.

“Mine too!” Harry says and he’s not just trying to agree with Louis. It’s really his favourite, no lie.

Louis starts dancing. Harry does too. The next step for Louis is to sing along, and Harry can just make out his sweet thin voice and Harry’s that much more enchanted, wants to collapse on the dirty beer-drenched floor.

Harry somehow gets daring. It must be the song or something, getting him bold – he dances, face forward to Louis. Louis notices and turns himself toward him, wiggling around with the rhythm. That’s right, Harry knew he could do stuff like this – he wasn’t actually a shy person. It just takes him a little while to loosen up around people he really likes.

Harry makes a fist and sings into it like it’s a microphone.

“ _‘Cause if you go, I go..._ ”

Louis cocks his head and gives him an analyzing look, eyebrows raised slightly like he was listening to a question.

“You have a great voice!” Louis tells him.

“Oh... Oh, thanks!” Harry says. He didn’t think Louis could hear him over the music and cheering. This is okay, he guesses. He got a compliment and he knew his voice was pretty decent.

Louis copies him, sways into him, with his own fist-microphone.

Harry’s going with it now, all these beats, beats in the music and conversation. Every song that ends, he finds something to say about it and gets Louis to nod and say something in return and smile, smile, smile. It becomes easier and easier to be with this boy. Every word Louis yells out above the noise makes Harry less intimidated and he senses, grows sure they’ve got something, that they’re on the same plane, like their energies sync up or their auras are the same colour or they’re compatible Sun signs or whatever. Whatever.

Between songs, Louis throws out a few basic questions. So they tell each other what year they’re in – yeah, Louis is older, as Harry thought – and where they’re from – Louis is from Doncaster, Harry’s from Holmes Chapel. Harry was hoping he lived closer than that, but... That’s fine, he can handle that right now. They’re here, they could’ve not met at all.

It feels like there were maybe two other songs performed. The musicians are getting sweaty and the rest of the crowd is as well. Harry, Louis, and their friends have a particularly fun time screaming to “If You See Kay” since it sounds like they’re spelling out, “F-U-C-K” and yes, they’re immature teenage boys for this. Harry doesn’t care; Louis is laughing like a maniac at this, and he rests his sunbathed arm on his shoulder to support himself through the hilarity.

The band leaves the stage for a while, hear the cheers, and come back on for their encore.

_My head is saying no, but my heart is giving in._

At these lines, the moment of recognition, Louis latches his arm around Harry’s waist and presses the top of his head into Harry’s temple, and they in a sideways hug for a few seconds. Once they separate, Louis flashes him a smile, then he starts swaying.

The final song comes through the speakers. Harry and Louis dance again, but they’re tired, so it’s more serene and they take in the melody in differently. They hear it in full, catch every switch in pitch because they’re bodies are doing little else to distract them.

Then it’s over. The vibrations stop and Harry feels vacant when nothing is filling up his ears, and the space between the crowd and ceiling is empty of anything too.

People in the audience shift in all directions except forward. Louis clasps Harry’s elbow.

“What a fucking great show!” Louis says all wide-eyed and worn. His hair’s gone pretty flat.

Nathan urges Harry to move back.

“Oh, I’ll... see you?” Harry says, suddenly horrified about leaving Louis in this massive cosmos of Script fans.

“I’ll follow,” Louis says to him and Harry thinks he’s a little nervous too, how his eyes flick side-to-side, trying to figure out the next step to this thing they have going on.

Louis and his two friends follow. The third time Harry glances behind him though, Louis is out of sight, and so are those friends.

It’s the most terrible thing ever.

Fuck all these fans. Fuck them for being way too numerous, for milling around or shoving themselves against each other, and being taller than him. Harry stays in his spot, hoping Louis will clamber out from the crowd and see him.

“Come on, Harry!” Nathan says, pulling at his arm. “My dad wants us to get out of here as soon as he can, remember? He’s working in the morning! We need to get to our bus and meet him!”

Oh God, this is turning out to be a tragic love story, and he and Louis didn’t even get to consummate their love like Romeo and Juliet did. Truly a tragedy.

The whole way out of the venue, Harry shoots looks everywhere like a paranoid cat. Nope, Louis is nowhere. Harry and his friends reach the street. People are more sparse here, and there’s still no Louis. Harry’s mind goes through possible solutions: there was the internet, the magical stalking enabler. Except he didn’t know Louis’ last name. Shit.

They make it to their bus stop, the bus stop that’s heading to the south of Manchester, and there’s a group waiting there, and if this was gonna be a happy ending, that group would have Louis in it, and it doesn’t. It doesn’t, it doesn’t, it doesn’t. The End.

“Harry? HARRY!”

Harry whips around and sees Louis waving him down like he’s marooned on an island and Harry is the rescue plane passing by in the sky.

“Louis!” Harry calls out.

Louis runs over. Harry takes out his phone.

Between quick breaths, Louis says, “I... I lost you! Then I was very smart about it and thought you’d probably be at this bus stop! I had... had a good time tonight!”

“Me too!”

They’re both yelling at each other which has Harry realize they’re both hearing damaged. There isn’t going to be any seductive whispering going on then.

“What’s your phone number?” Harry asks him.

Louis tells him, and with some embarrassment, Harry repeats it three times to make sure he’s got it down right.

“Text me, all right? I’ll see you, I’m sure!” Louis says through a smile.

“Yeah, I’ll see you,” Harry says.

Brazen or maybe sickeningly desperate, Harry leans in and pecks Louis’ cheek, his warm taut little cheek.

Louis doesn’t grin. He’s actually furrowing his brow. Harry’s made major mistake.

“Hey, you live in Holmes Chapel!” Louis says.

A pause. “What?”

“I mean – you live far away from me!” Louis states. “So here!”

Louis puts his fingers in Harry’s curls and his face gets super close; Harry can see how the tips of his eyelashes splay, then he’s out of focus, and out of focus faces are fantastic because it means Harry’s about to be kissed.

Their lips come together and Harry has enough instinct to part his mouth a little for Louis’ lips to fit into him better. Harry’s brain mostly just malfunctions with too much sensory input. He doesn’t believe this is happening and he doesn’t know what he’s doing or how to make this nice for Louis. Harry’s clearly a newb and a knob – he doesn’t even have his eyes closed.

Louis pulls back and it relieves Harry that he’s beaming. God, he’s so perfect up close, in the clear lighting that the street lights give off.

“A kiss on the cheek wasn’t going to cut it,” Louis says.

Harry needs to do it one more time. He was so shocked and self-conscious, he couldn’t take that kiss in properly. So he’s gonna live in the moment, do some carpe diem-ing and all that good stuff. He’ll try this a second time...

He cups Louis’ chin. Harry pauses a little too long and Louis does the most adorable thing – grins a little, shuts his eyes, and cocks his head a few degrees to ready himself for Harry.

This kiss is better. For Harry, anyway. He feels Louis now, the smooth texture of his lips and how they’re cushy and warm, and okay, whoa, there is tongue suddenly. Harry lets out a low barely audible hum of satisfaction.

Louis’ hangs his hands at the small of Harry’s back as he pulls away.

“See you then,” he says. “We’ll figure something out!”

“O-okay!” Harry’s voice cracks. They’re still talking to each other with raised voices.

“Okay!”

“Bye!”

“Yeah, bye!”

The End. The real End.


End file.
